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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923404">Lammas</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi'>Gryphonrhi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Aidan-verse 3: Aftermaths and Other Tidbits [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Advent Amnest, Advent Amnesty, All The Original Characters - Freeform, Families of Choice, Gen, I will be finishing this, Teacher/Student Relationships, background Xan/Alex/Connor, there probably still won't be much plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:27:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever admitted, then or later, whose bright idea it was that got quite so out of hand.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Aidan-verse 3: Aftermaths and Other Tidbits [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/8403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lammas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Posting because I'm in Advent Amnesty, i.e., here, have a WIP in hopes I will finish the blasted thing.  And because it's 2020 and I wanted cheerful family silliness and a ton of OCs.  If you don't like my OCs, bail now.  If you want a plot, well, I make no promises there either.  Those were your warnings.  And yes, Lammas of '98 was on a Saturday.  Gen for now; I will note at the top of a chapter if the warnings or pairings-status changes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marc set the crate of cherries on the floor, straightened his aching back, and asked plaintively, "Teach?  What are we going to do with this much produce?"</p><p>"I've met your grandmother.  Surely you know how to can?" Aidan said.  She did stop and look around, at least, slowing as she took in the sheer number of bags.  From the look on her face, yeah, no, Aidan really hadn’t paid attention to just how packed her Range Rover had gotten.  Marc had no idea how she’d kept missing it during twenty minutes of unloading, for that matter.  "Oh.  My.  I take your point.  What was I thinking?"</p><p>"I did keep asking," Marc reminded her.  "You've been distracted all morning, you know.  But you had enough cash for all of it, so I figured it was deliberate."  He eyed the mounds of food dubiously anyway; this was easily four times what they'd get if Duncan, Adam, and Rich were already in town and Joe had threatened to bring his latest band for dinner as well.</p><p>Aidan looked at the bundles of flowers in the sink, at the emptied bags where she'd stuffed meats into the freezer, at the crates and bags and boxes of fruit and vegetables strewn across her counters, table, chairs, and now the floor.</p><p>She started water running into the sink to keep the flowers happy and leaned against the counter, still startled.  "Well, yes, it must have been deliberate, but dear goddess, I wonder how many people are coming next weekend?"</p><p>Marc raised an eyebrow.  Priorities, right.  He checked the coffee maker – good thing he’d reloaded it after breakfast, but yeah, no, it needed to be stronger than that.  He was going to be pouring it over ice before it got a chance to cool at this rate.  He added more grounds, started it brewing, then headed to the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of cold coffee already waiting.  This much food prep was definitely going to burn through a lot of caffeine.</p><p>For that matter, okay, he ran on the stuff, but why the heck had Aidan bought ten pounds of coffee that morning?  Ten pounds of coffee, three pounds of the good cocoa, and four quarts of local cream?  As for the eggs, well, Marc was just grateful they were local and could go on the basement table without refrigeration for a week if need be.  Otherwise… souffle, maybe?</p><p>This whole market run was going to spill into what had been Rich's basement apartment, the table, fridge, and chest freezer at the absolute least.  Marc might need to run out for a couple ice chests and twenty or thirty pounds of ice, too, and did they have room in the cupboards for all the cocoa…?</p><p>Marc paused in his mental inventory.  "Wait.  People are coming next weekend?  Why?  Your birthday's in February, Teach."</p><p>"Because next weekend is Lammas."  Aidan shifted the faucet to the other side of the sink, set it to hot, and put the second largest stock pot in to fill.  Marc could almost see her to-do list expanding as she looked around.  "Right.  Well.  Pour me an iced coffee as well while you’re at it.  We'll blanch and freeze the berries and stone fruit first."</p><p>"Lammas."  Marc grinned suddenly.  "<em>That's</em> what Rich said he was coming in for.  Cool!  But what is it?"  He dug out two huge insulated cups, filled them with ice, cold coffee, and chocolate milk, and passed one to Aidan before he started getting on the outside of the other.</p><p>Aidan smiled at him.  "This is when I met Rich last year, now that you mention it.  First of August is Lammas, Marco, or Loaf-mass.  A harvest festival.  In my case, it's 'prepare to feed extra mouths.'"  She looked around, exasperated with herself from the sound of it and starting to look bemused again.  "Apparently, I think I'm feeding the world this year."</p><p>Marc shrugged and chugged half of his mocha while he could.  He wiped off the milk mustache and asked, "Do you do this every August?"</p><p>"Oh, more years than not."  Aidan looked around, puzzled and only half-present again.  "What in the world is Connor up to?"</p><p>"You'd know better than I would."  Marc turned the water off and moved the stock pot to the stove.  If the burner was going on high, so was the ventilation hood.  He hauled out the bread bowls, too.  A pair of bowls the width of his forearm <em>might</em> hold enough ice water to get this produce cooled in time for dinner.  Maybe.  He asked patiently, "What does it feel like Uncle’s up to?"</p><p>"Mischief," Aidan muttered darkly as she went to open all the windows.  Good; they were gonna need a cross-breeze!  "He's laughing about something and not letting me see what, the wretch."</p><p>"Sounds normal for you two."  Marc surfaced from the freezer with a bin of ice just in time for his phone to ring.  He put the ice on the floor (the counter was already buried), closed the door, and blinked at the display.  "Farrell, hey, what's up?"</p><p>"Your family is completely insane," Farrell said flatly.</p><p>Huh.  Not the normal tone for his calls.  Marc leaned against the counter contemplatively, conserving energy for the crazy afternoon clearly ahead of him.  "Okay, unless you're in Philly, which I doubt—"</p><p>"No, Marco."  Ish was arguing within hearing range of Farrell's phone, but he was arguing with two women who sounded familiar if Marc just had a spare second to think--  "I'm in <em>Seacouver</em>."</p><p>No.  No, that was new.  Marc blinked once and refocused on the new priorities.  "Say that again?  You're where?"</p><p>"Ten minutes out, apparently.  Ish just now told me that no one told you when people were arriving, just that everyone was coming for Lammas."  Farrell's voice eased down into amusement again.  "Since I had to ask when Lammas was, it occurred to me that <em>you</em> might not know either.  So, this is your warning:  Lammas is a week from today and several groups thought it might be kinder to give Phoebe some help with the cooking for this shindig."</p><p>Marc took another fortifying swig of his mocha before he asked, "Farrell, when you say several groups, what do you mean?  For that matter, ten minutes out from where?  And what shindig?"</p><p>"Eight now.  From your place, Marco.  And we're group three, I'm hearing, but that means I have no clue who groups one and two are, where they are, or what their ETA is.  So, this is me warning you there's an invasion coming.  Apparently, in your family, Lammas is a party."</p><p>"Ah.  Okay.  Eight minutes, huh?  Well, I just started the coffee maker, so good timing.  I might need a second one, but okay.  Hmm.  If you swing past a gas station, pick me up a couple Styrofoam coolers and two, three bags of ice?  See you soon."</p><p>Marc hung up and looked up from his phone to see Aidan standing in front of him instead of at the sink.</p><p>She had her hands on her hips, which was leaving dirt and juice stains on the faded denim shorts (cherry or plum, from the color); her t-shirt was already sweat-soaked from emptying the Rover into the elevator and then the elevator into the kitchen.  Her hair was coiled up out of the way with pencils advertising two different growers' collectives and she had silver glitter on her temples from the face painting booth that morning.  (Marc couldn’t really say much.  He had gold tribal patterns down one side of his face and onto his throat, which managed to be just a little flashier than the phoenix flying up Aidan’s right arm.)</p><p>"Marco?  Did you just say that Farrell is almost here?  And 'several groups'?"</p><p>"That's what he said," Marc agreed.  "Apparently, we're going to have help with the cooking?"</p><p>Aidan looked at him, looked around the kitchen, and started laughing again.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <hr/>
</div>Marc opened the door to the buzzes and got as far as, “About time—” before he shifted to, “Wait, so who are you?”  The first mocha had kicked in, so he added, “And which group are you?”<p>Okay, fine, he should have been more cautious, but fuck it, Farrell had said eight minutes.</p><p>As for the new guys – well one of them looked like a Slav of some kind who’d gotten tired of mining or farming and gone pirate.  The other guy looked like the Mediterranean variety of pirate:  more olive-tone to the skin and some serious curl to the moustache and beard.  Honestly, he looked like Alex had managed to have a son who’d taken to following the black flag.</p><p>Whoever they were, they were standing there with a case of wine apiece balanced on their inside shoulders and string bags of groceries weighting down the outside arms.  Emphasis on weighting:  the handles on those bags were visibly cutting into their palms.</p><p>Marc double-checked the contents of the bags -- fifteen pounds of flour and sugar and a few pounds of butter per guy -- and sighed in relief.  “Oh, thank God.  Not more produce.”</p><p>That did it; the pirate with the mustache was <em>definitely</em> one of his brothers.  Marc knew that laugh from phone calls.  Good thing, too, because if someone had told him Shamil looked like a Russian bandit going through a Sam Elliot phase, he’d have had a better idea who he’d almost cursed out.  “Damn it, Shamil, why doesn’t Teach or Terrence have a picture of you?”</p><p>“Because Maistreas fell out of touch with me before photography got past daguerreotypes, which were a torment.”  Shamil shrugged, wide shoulders rippling under a t-shirt that had something written on it in Greek; the alphabet was all Marc was sure of.  “Terrence, now?  No idea.  I certainly have pictures from his last wedding but one.”  He reconsidered that briefly then said, “No, actually, no, I don’t.  Now I remember.  I burnt them.  ‘60s fashions were hideous.”</p><p>Marc thought he almost knew who Shamil’s cohort in crime had to be, if only from a few family stories he’d gotten over the summer.  (Give Terrence a guitar or Carolyn a six pack of beer and all sorts of gossip fell out, a lot of it in musical form.)</p><p>Jake, if it was Jake, added, “Gods know no one could blame Terrence for burning his copies.  Ariel was a disaster.  Sorry, I know Terrence is your brother, too,” and he nodded to Marc, “but baby blue tuxedos, baby’s butt pink bridesmaid dresses, and judging by Terrence’s trouble with the divorce and how fast she wanted one, she was definitely in it for his money.”  His t-shirt had a circle of moon phases on it, colors cycling through a rainbow that glinted as he half-bowed.  “Jake Falstaff, cousin, one of the twins’ students, and these bags aren’t light.  Mind letting us in?”</p><p>Marc raised an eyebrow, studied the way they were standing, and blinked.  “You were seriously going to use groceries as an in-close weapon?”</p><p>Jake grinned at him. “Only if you weren’t friendly.  Family, now, we’ll just send back for the rest of the gear.”  He looked around, though.  “Speaking of family, where’s everyone else?”</p><p>“Everyone…” Marc shook his head.  “Okay, I should have put alcohol in that mocha.  Come on in, guys.”  He backed up, tapped the intercom button with an elbow, and called, “Hey, Teach:  Shamil’s here with Jake Falstaff – hey, you both called during that dating fiasco this spring, didn’t you? – and baking stuff.  I want cobbler, damn it.”</p><p>Shamil laughed.  “Cobbler, hmm?”</p><p>“Cobbler.  Wait until you <em>see</em> all the fruit upstairs.”</p><p>Jake snorted and gestured with his chin.  “Then go put this butter in the freezer, cousin, and I’ll start pie crust as soon as we’re unloaded.  Ish will be here and that means galettes.”</p><p>“And crepes for breakfast, don’t forget,” Shamil said cheerfully.  “I’ll handle the chicken if you’ll sauté mushrooms.  Marco, can you cook?”</p><p>Marc’s eyes lit up.  “Crepes?  Hell, yes, I can cook for that.  But seriously.  Come on up.  We’re going to need all the help we can get.”</p><p>Jake followed him in.  “Then we’re just in time.”</p><p>Shamil, however, laughed.  “Terrence had better get his ass over here.  He may not be able to cook, but he can damn well make coffee on command and sing for our suppers.”</p><p>Jake laughed.  “Damn right he can.  He’s promised me a new drinking song or six.”  He added, “Nice art, by the way, Marc.  The gold suits you.  Aunt Aidan’s work?”</p><p>Marc laughed.  “Nah, a guy at the farmer’s market this morning.  Wait ‘til you see what Aidan got.”  He hauled the grate up on the elevator and helped them unload without dropping any wine.  “Right, we go back for the rest now.  Everything in and then up in one trip.  Faster, especially if Farrell and Ish are on their way with ice and a couple of my sisters.”</p><p>“Which ones?” Shamil asked.  “Emails have been flying fast and furious, but so have calls.”</p><p>“Hell.  I was hoping you knew.”  Marc shrugged.  “None of those emails included me, but I'm assuming that was deliberate.  Call I got just had background noise, and Farrell was boggling my mind.  No idea which two, other than ‘not Mandisa.’  Her voice, I know anywhere.”</p><p>Jake chuckled.  “Don’t we all?”  He grabbed a pair of suitcases out of their rental and Shamil handed bags of groceries to Marc, who laughed at the weight of them.  “Don’t drop anything.  I already promised to help with dinner tonight.”</p><p>“How many pounds am I going to <em>gain</em> this week?”  Shamil and Jake both stopped to look Marc up and down in almost-matching, narrow-eyed appraisals that made him wonder if he needed to hide behind a door.</p><p>“At least five,” Shamil said firmly.  “And that’s if Maestreas has put as much muscle on you as I think.  If not, ten pounds would be a good start.”</p><p>Jake nodded and added, “We’re unknotting your shoulders as soon as the dough is in the fridge, too.  Come on, cousin.  One of us can come back for anything still in the car.”</p><p>Marc shook his head and got the door.  “Yeah, fine, but get it in gear.  Threats later, work now.”</p><p>When they did get up to second, Marc decided he must be worrying Aidan less; she was still busily shuttling fruit from hot water to cold water to the towels covering the table.  Her quickening felt busy, amused, and content, with no worry under it that he could sense.  Good.  God knew she wouldn’t have let him answer the door by himself in March or April.  “Right.  What do you want us to get next, Teach?  Jake has to make pie crust, apparently, but Shamil and I can start on something.”</p><p>Shamil brushed past them to hug Aidan, still working or not.  “I’d say it’s good to see you, but you’ve yet to turn around.”</p><p>She laughed and turned the burner off.  “Fine, fine, wretch.”  She shifted around to hug Shamil properly and kindly kept her berry-stained hands off his clothes.  “Ah, look at you!  Finland agrees with you.”  Her attention shifted over his shoulder and Aidan frowned.  “Who in the Names did you lose the bet to, Jake?”</p><p>Shamil freed a hand and held it out.  “I did say.  Pay up, you.”</p><p>Jake pulled his wallet out while he explained, “It’s Robbi’s fault—”</p><p>“Not Eve’s?” Aidan asked critically.  “That’s a bear of a beard, Jake, especially in the dog days as we are.  Aren’t you still in Italy?  What in the world was either of you thinking?”</p><p>“I am, and Robbi wanted to see if I looked more or less like Alexandrias with a beard.  I <em>told</em> her the answer was ‘less’ but she didn’t believe me.  Me, I was thinking as much as three bottles of ouzo lets anyone think, of course.  My baby sister made me promise nothing pencil-thin, more than stubble, and nothing that made me look like an animated movie villain.  That left me with this.”  He waved a hand at his beard, keeping the wallet from Shamil as he did.</p><p>“Ah.  Meaning your sister had had at least two bottles of something herself, hmm?  I begin to see,” Aidan said dryly.  “That’s all good and well , and normally I’d let you sweat out your own foolishness, nephew, but you’re here for Lammas and you are <em>not</em> cooking in my kitchen with that.”</p><p>Jake pulled back the twenty he was just handing to Shamil. “<em>Bless you</em>.”</p><p>Aidan laughed.  “A loophole, a loophole, your ducats for a loophole?”</p><p>“Been a while since I’ve had any of those.  While I’m supposed to leave this monstrosity on ‘til August and I can’t let any number of people shave it off, starting with Shamil here or the twins --my sister never thought to put <em>you</em> on that list.”  His smile shifted to pure wickedness.  “Mind, she should have, as I’ll point out to her when she arrives.  We were drinking to the family vacation here, you see.”</p><p>Aidan chuckled.  “Foolishness on both sides or no, the price for this shave and haircut is that you go back out tonight and stock in ouzo and retsina for your branch of the family, then.”  Aidan laughed when he flinched.  “The opening round, Jake.  I’m not cruel enough to make you buy for all of them for the week.  But since none of you <em>warned</em> me of this invasion, I’ve not restocked from Midsummer.”</p><p>Jake shrugged.  “Xan said it was mischief and Connor said you’d like it.  Not on my head.  But I’ll buy the opening salvo, absolutely, and it’ll probably last past tonight – my sisters don’t get in ‘til Thursday, I think.  Truly, not melting in August?  Cheap at the price, Aunt, and much appreciated.”</p><p>Marc passed Shamil an iced mocha and took a sip of his own.  “If you want whipped cream, you’ll have to whip it yourself.  Jake, you want liquid before Teach wreaks havoc?”</p><p>Jake waved him off.  “I’ll get some when I can enjoy it without this tea-strainer.”  He added, “Go ahead and throw a bowl in the freezer though, hmm?  The both of you look like you’ve had the year rumor reports.”</p><p>“I’ll have you know I put on a full stone of muscle this year,” Aidan said indignantly.  “We’ve not shaken on this bargain yet, remember.  Do you want your beard cut, or do you wish to explain to Xan and Alex your drunken bets?”</p><p>“You’re changing the topic.”  Jake studied her thoughtfully.  “And you don’t have room to argue in those clothes, Edana, although you’ve too much room otherwise.  Maybe you’d put on muscle before the war, but how much have you lost since April?”  His frown deepened, adding five years to his apparent age.  “And why or how?”</p><p>Marc snorted.  “Probably fifteen pounds, Jake, but since she’s sleeping properly again, she’s put about five of it back on.”  He kept digging out room in the freezer, not looking over as he added, “And I swear to God, Teach, you argue those numbers and I will absolutely call Connor’s cellphone for my cousin there.”</p><p>“As may be,” Aidan said firmly, “Jake, hush, and dig out this morning’s paper from the bin there while I get scissors and a chair.  Marco, the fruit won’t blanch itself.  Shamil—”</p><p>“I’ll get the rest of our gear from the car and just go claim the downstairs bed Rich promised exists before the rest of them get here,” Shamil said firmly.  “And call them if they don’t show up by the time I’m done, too,” he muttered.</p><p>Aidan was back to business, so nothing to worry about.  Good.  Marc turned the stove back on and started plotting what kind of pies and cobbler they were making today.  Oh, yeah.  This week was gonna be fun.</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you were wondering who Jake was (in <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835342">Five Near Misses, One House Afire</a> or <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/293515">Oops Is  A Four-Letter Word</a>), well, now you have a much better idea?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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